


The Story Beneath the Story

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allusions to abuse, Angst, Behind the Scenes, Gen, M/M, Stilinski feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski's POV of the events of <i>Where All the Coefficients Are Real</i>, and his actions following Stiles' phone call in chapter 2 of <i>Uncountably infinite</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hands

As soon as Michael Stilinski hangs up with his son, he gets up from his desk and walks down the hall to the crime lab. He sticks his head in the door and catches Jay's eye, motions him to join him outside. He takes them to the side patio, where they lean against the wall and Jay pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

 

Michael waits until he's taken half a dozen decent drags before he broaches the subject. “I need you to do me a favor.”

 

Jay shrugs easily. “Sure. What's up?”

 

“I need you to run a trace on my son's cell.”

 

“Hmm.” Jay snubs the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot and puts the butt in his pocket. “We have a warrant for this?”

 

“No. That's why it's called a favor. Just like that favor I did for you down in Sacramento.”

 

Jay holds up a hand. “Hey, hey, no need to go mentioning Sacramento. I didn't say I wasn't going to do it. Just need to know my parameters. You know if I have to go backdoor, it's going to take longer. A few hours.”

 

“Just get it done. I need to know where he is.”

 

If Stiles is going to continue to insist on lying to him, Michael feels absolutely no remorse about lying right back. Because he knows his son, and he knows when he's trying to fast talk him, and when he's trying to sound brave, but he's actually afraid. And the Stiles he just got off the phone with? That Stiles is scared shitless.

 

Jay nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “He okay?”

 

Michael rubs a hand over his face, pulls a little on his mouth and chin as he passes by them. He shakes his head. “I really don't know.”

 

He's not sure, exactly, what to think, when a neighbor or two mentions, in passing, a boy hanging out in his backyard. It's probably Scott, who's always in and out, and has been know to occasionally climb in through Stiles' window, which this kid is apparently doing, too. Then again, all the neighbors know who Scott is, and would probably have either not bothered bringing it up, or would have at least identified him by name.

 

But things have been good in the last few months. Quiet. He hasn't found Stiles at any crime scenes, hasn't watched Stiles' eyes slide away from his, in guilt or discomfort. Hasn't wondered what his son is up to and when they lost the easy trust they used to have. He doesn't want to do anything to upset that, and so, probably foolishly, he lets the whole matter lie.

 

It isn't until a Friday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, when he makes an impromptu run to the house from work, that he starts putting the pieces together. Stiles' music is blaring so loudly that it's easily heard from the street, and if he doesn't turn it down, Mrs. Hannity from next door is going to call his office to lodge a complaint about noise pollution. So Michael bypasses his office and heads straight to Stiles' room, ready to goodnaturedly chew him out before they commiserate about old ladies and their sensitive ears. He can hear dull thuds through the ceiling, which means Stiles is probably dancing, secure in the knowledge no one can see, and he readies himself to gently tease his son about that, as well.

 

But he pulls up short at Stiles' door, back to where he can see in, but where Stiles' view is partially blocked, and his opening volley dies on his lips. Stiles isn't alone. Isaac Lahey is bounding around the room with him, both of them shouting along to the music at the top of their lungs.

 

Once he's exonerated of his father's murder, Michael only sees him in passing. At lacrosse games, around town with the Reyes girl or the Boyd kid, or Derek Hale, who has somehow, despite all rational expectations otherwise, managed to obtain some kind of informal guardianship of Isaac. He knows from parent teacher conferences – where Harris takes great delight in enumerating all of Stiles' misdeeds; Michael is slowly reaching the end of his patience with Harris using his son as his whipping boy – that Isaac and Stiles are lab partners, but he hadn't been remotely aware they were anything close to friends.

 

And maybe he could have dismissed it as just that, as two teenagers blowing off steam on a lazy afternoon – it's not like he's never watched Stiles and Scott making fools of themselves in similar situations; could have discounted or explained away the fact they're half dressed when Stiles rarely takes his shirt off in front of _him_ , could even have decided the large, purple bruise in the middle of Stiles' chest is from lacrosse, or that maybe he's finally convinced Lydia of his charms. 

 

He could have written off all of those things, if it weren't for their hands.

 

As much as they're bouncing around, laughing and dancing and pretty much being teenage boys, their hands never leave each other, not really. There's a palm brushing an arm here, then fingers sliding across a shoulder there. A wrist, a hip, little touches that linger just a second too long for casualness, any time they're within a foot of each other.

 

They don't even seem to notice they're doing it, and that may be the most telling.

 

Stiles stumbles; Isaac grins and catches him at the waist to steady him. The tips of his fingers slip just inside Stiles' waistband, before he lets him go with a tiny push. Michael is starting to feel a bit like a voyeur – there's a casual intimacy here that isn't meant for outside eyes – so he slides into the room and hits the “off” button on the iDock.

 

Stiles' reaction is...memorable. He spins around with a deer caught in the headlights look, while his hands flail wildly before he trains them back to his sides.

 

“Dad,” his voice cracks, ““Hey...uh, hey there. Aren't you...ah...aren't you working?” The way he's determinedly trying not to look at anything but Michael raises a red flag that there are things he doesn't want him seeing, and now that music isn't blasting in his ears, it's easy enough to pick up the rest of the pieces to complete the puzzle.

 

Pieces like the lacrosse uniform lying crumpled in two different places on the floor - number 14 and not 24. Pieces like Stiles' shirt balled up at the end of a very, very rumpled bed, while the jeans and boxers he went to school in are sitting in the doorway – Michael very purposely does not think about the discoloration standing stark and obvious against the dark material.

 

Mostly, though, he notices Isaac trying to crawl his way through the wall by the window, terror oozing out of every pore. Michael Stilinski is an officer of the law; he is sworn to uphold it. But he has never quite been able to regret that someone murdered Isaac's father. No child should live with that kind of fear.

 

He keeps his voice calm and does his best to make his body language as non-threatening as possible, even though he's addressing Stiles and not Isaac. “I am, I just swung by to pick up some files. I knocked you know. Maybe you should think about turning the sound down.” A small lie, but he really didn't intend to catch Stiles off guard, and it makes it easier on them both.

 

And because he can't just pretend Isaac isn't there, he turns his attention to where the boy still hasn't relaxed an iota. “Hello, Isaac.”

 

If possible, Isaac shrinks even further back. “Sh-Sheriff.”

 

_Crap_ , he should have remembered that the last time they actually had a conversation, he was locking Isaac in a cell. The last thing he wants to do is scare the kid more. Stiles has tensed right along with Isaac, and Michael watches as he takes a step to the side, to where he's partially blocking the other boy from view.

 

It's at that moment he realizes exactly how serious this thing is he's witnessing. It's obviously time to have that conversation he'd aborted at  _The Jungle_ , time to find out exactly what other events he's been missing in his son's life. But not in front of Isaac. And first he's got to get the kid to peel himself off the damn wall. He wishes he weren't in uniform; it can't be a good memory for him.

 

He smiles more directly at Isaac. “Mr. Stilinski is fine.” And miracle of miracles, Isaac's shoulders relax and his jaw unclenches. 

 

“Mr. Stilinski.”

 

Stiles is watching Isaac, too, and Michael wonders if he's aware of one corner of his mouth turning up as Isaac answers him, like he's proud, or relieved, or maybe both of those things rolled up into one. There's so much comfort between the two of them, so many unspoken signals that travel the space between them. Whatever this thing is, it's not new.

 

Michael clears his throat, because if he stays any longer, things will move on to awkward, and he really does have to get back to work.

 

“Okay, I've got to head back in. Remember we have neighbors, son.” It will do good for Stiles to recall that just because Michael works a lot, it doesn't mean he's completely oblivious. “Make sure you get your homework done. Mr. Harris says you two have a big chemistry project coming up.”

 

He manages, just barely, not to laugh as Stiles sputters out some very unfortunate word choices, bids the boys good-bye, and heads back down the stairs. Tomorrow morning, he'll sit Stiles down and make sure he understands Michael loves him no matter who  _he_ loves, embarrass him by mentioning safe sex, and make sure Stiles never,  _ever_ sees how much it concerns him that Stiles has chosen to have his first serious relationship with a boy as damaged as Isaac Lahey.

 

He has every intention of speaking with Stiles, but they've paved that road before, and that night, a fresh body comes rolling in. He ends up working a double, and then another double, and like so many other times, the more important father-son things get pushes aside for the more urgent things. By the time he gets a day off, he's so exhausted he falls in the bed and doesn't wake up for 24 hours, before cutting his weekend short and heading back into the station.

 

And then...well, then it's today, and he gets a cryptic call from his son and allusions to an Isaac who is hurt badly enough that Stiles is running and won't tell Michael where. Stiles is too young for this, but then, he's always tried to save the world.  _Isaac_ is too young for this, but then, kids like him have always had to grow up fast.

 

After he leaves Jay, he sits at his desk and tries to concentrate on other things. Stares blankly at paperwork, and at the caseboard, at the stack of messages on his desk. He picks up his phone and tries calling Stiles back, but isn't surprised when he only gets voicemail.

 

Finally, he can't take the waiting any longer. He might not be able to hurry Jay up, but he could do his own legwork. And any legwork involving Stiles always starts at Scott. He lets Jay know to call him as soon as he gets a hit, tells Rita he's going to run down some leads – not  _technically_ a lie – and grabs his badge and jacket. Five minutes later he's starting up the cruiser, and thirty seconds later he's driving down main street, in the direction of the McCalls.


	2. Fists

He never makes it to the McCall's. He never makes it further than five blocks from the station, because as he's passing Starbucks – that blight that went up six months ago – he catches sight of Scott standing on the sidewalk, with the Reyes girl and Derek Hale. They're standing too close for casual conversation, and Scott is gesturing angrily with an arm, while Derek jabs a finger at his chest.

 

Michael passes by and turns down a side street, then pulls over and gets out. He stops , just at the corner of the building, and peeks around to the store front. They're still going at it, and snatches of their conversation drift over, Derek's voice hard and intent, with an edge of indulgent amusement, and Scott's indignant.

 

“...you can't just...”

 

“...he'll live, which is more than you had planned for Jackson when he and Allison...”

 

Michael doesn't get a chance to strain his ears any further, because Chris Argent comes stalking across the street and shoves in between the boys and Erica.

 

“Are you _insane_? You're in the middle of the street. This is not the low key presence you two just promised. Don't make me regret not putting a -”

 

He breaks off as Michael comes strolling around the corner and stops beside Scott. He nods to each of them. “Scott. Erica. Chris. Hale.” He'll admit to being immaturely gratified when they all freeze and take a step back from each other. “Is something wrong?”

 

Scott laughs nervously, then grins winningly, while Hale has his usual stony glare in place. Erica shimmies a little and flips her hair – really, kid?  _Really_ ? - and Chris just shakes his head and crosses his arms. It's Scott who answers.

 

“Ha ha. No, no. We're just...ah...just talking about the latest lacrosse game. We get a little worked up over sports.” Hale rolls his eyes, and Chris, without another word, just turns on his heels and walks back to his car.

 

“Right. Sports. Okay.”

 

Scott darts a glance at Hale, wrinkles his nose, and looks back at Michael. “Hey, Mr. Stilinski, do you know where Stiles is? We're supposed to hang out this afternoon, but I can't get him on the phone. He probably let his battery die again, huh?”

 

Stiles  _never_ lets his battery die, he's too worried something will happen to Michael and he won't be able to be reached. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all.

 

“No, sorry, son. No clue where he's at. You check over at Heroes and Dragons? The new Batman came out today, right?” If he hadn't been watching, he would have missed it – all three of the kids' eyes get a kind of far away look, and Scott's head actually tilts to the side for half a second. He doesn't know why, but he's suddenly very glad Stiles didn't tell him where he's going.

 

Scott focuses on him again, while a frustrated growl slips out of Hale.

 

“Oh, okay. Thanks anyway, Mr. Stilinski. I'll see if he's there.”

 

A bell chimes as the door opens, and Danny Mahealani comes strolling out with a cup of what looks like green tea. He gives them all a once over, shakes his head, and walks across the street. Hale stares at his back thoughtfully before taking off after him; he catches up in a few strides, Erica dogging his heels.

 

Michael and Scott hold a staring contest for several seconds, and then Scott shifts awkwardly, mumbles something about needing to call his mom, and practically runs away.

 

Michael Stilinski is surrounded by liars.

 

He's not big on threatening kids – his little moment questioning Jackson is not his proudest – so he lets him go, because there are other places to go for answers. When he gets back to the cruiser, he radios the station and puts out an APB on Chris Argent's tags. He gets a hit in less than a minute, and when he pulls up behind the black SUV, traveling down a road that leads to the suburbs, he flips on his lights and pulls him over.

 

He knows Chris reasonably well. They both go to the city gym, and play the occasional game of pick-up basketball. Chris will try to subtly pump him for information on local cases, and Michael will let him, because in exchange, Chris occasionally drops tidbits that help him _solve_ those cases. He knows Chris is more than just a weapons dealer, but has never found anything that tells him exactly what that something is, and their arrangement is beneficial enough that he hasn't pushed.

 

But when it comes to Stiles, all bets are off.

 

Chris rolls his window down. “What can I help you with, Sheriff?”

 

Michael rests his hand on the butt of his gun. “I need you to step out of your vehicle, please.”

 

“You're kidding.”

 

Michael doesn't say anything, or change his expression, just continues to stare steadily at Chris, and the other man finally shakes his head and unlocks his door. “Okay, fine.”

 

When he's all the way out, he leans back against the car and crosses his arms. “Alright, Mike, you've got me out here. What do you want?”

 

“What's the deal with Scott and Derek Hale?”

 

When Chris settles further back on the car and half grins before answering, Michael knows he's just going to get another lie. Everyone has a tell. “Back there? Who knows. You got there right after I did. Likely just a bunch of kids being stupid. As usual.”

 

Michael takes a step back, narrows his eyes at Chris, and taps his hand on his holster. “We've known each other a while now, Chris, right? And I've looked the other way on a lot of - “

 

Chris snorts. “Because you can't find anything, Mike. Don't even pretend you would keep your mouth shut if you had any sort of proof I was doing...less than legal things. Too much of a white knight.” He inclines his head a little. “It's not a bad thing. But I _am_ telling you the truth. I have no idea what Scott and Derek were discussing.”

 

Maybe he doesn't know that, but he knows _something_. Just like Stiles, he's been in too many places, at too many convenient times. Michael switches tactics abruptly, hoping to jar something out with the subject change. “Someone's hurt Isaac Lahey. I'm trying to find out who.”

 

Chris barks out a short laugh. “Come on, Mike. Kind of background Isaac comes from --” Michael carefully files away the fact Chris not only knows who Isaac is, but knows his history as well-- “you and I both know the most likely candidate for who did the hurting.” His voice turns curious. “Do you actually _have_ Isaac?”

 

Michael doesn't answer him, because he's already getting in his cruiser, heading toward the address Derek has listed with the DMV. It turns out to be an apartment in a lower middle class building at the edge of town. Derek's number is on the second floor, and Michael knocks three times, hard.

 

There's no answer. He knocks again.

 

No response.

 

He tries the doorknob. It turns.

 

Well, if it's not locked, it's really not breaking and entering, right? He unbuttons the strap over his gun before carefully pushing the door open.

 

The apartment is empty. Not empty as in no one is home, but empty as in there isn't a single piece of furniture inside. It's a studio, and the entire place is bare, from wall to wall.

 

“He doesn't live here.”

 

Michael whirls around, hand going to his gun, but it's just Chris, standing on the opposite side of the hall.

 

“He's never lived here. It's just an address on a piece of paper. You need to let this go, Mike. It doesn't concern you, and you shouldn't get involved.”

 

Michael is done with the mysterious allusions bullshit. He's done with people purposely trying to keep him blindfolded. He's across the hall in three steps, grabbing Chris by the front of his shirt and shoving him into the wall.

 

“My _son_ is seeing Isaac Lahey.” He sees Chris's eyes widen. “My _son_ called me this morning, scared out of his mind. Wouldn't tell me where he is or where he's going, just says Isaac's been hurt and he's going to “fix it.” Now you tell me, exactly how _concerned_ would you be in my shoes? Exactly how _involved?_ ” He shoves Chris one more time, for good measure, before releasing him and stepping back.

 

With deliberate casualness, Chris brushes his shirt off and straightens it, mutters under his breath. “Can't keep their goddamn paws off the humans.”

 

“What?” That certainly hadn't been on his list of possible responses to expect.

 

There's no humor in Chris's smile, but there's pity in his eyes. “Allison has been dating Scott for months, and I don't have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times her life has been in danger because of it. If Stiles has chosen to get mixed up with Isaac, and has somehow decided to put himself between him and Derek...” Chris shakes his head. “You should be more than concerned.” 

 

“Chris --” Michael isn't above begging. “-- I know things have been off here for a long time, and I know Stiles has been at the middle of it. I need to know what's going on so I can _help my son_. Please. Put yourself in my place. What if it was Allison? Are we talking drugs? Some kind of mob crap?”

 

Chris actually laughs at that, his whole body shaking, and Michael begins to seriously consider the misuse of his powers of authority. He doesn't need a warrant to lock him up, friendship be damned. The full twenty-four hours if he has to.

 

But then his phone beeps with a text from Jay.

 

** Got it within a ten mile radius. Start now? **

 

“ _Yes_!” he hisses, doing a mini-version of Stiles' famous fist pump. He spins on his heel to head to the stairs when Chris calls after him.

 

“Mike, hold up.” Chris isn't laughing anymore, and Michael can see he's trying to come to a decision.

 

“I don't have time for this. I need to find Stiles and Isaac.” He starts walking off again, but Chris moves along with him.

 

“Whatever you're thinking of doing, _don't_. There are things you can't be prepared for.”

 

“Don't take this the wrong way, Chris, but go fuck yourself. It's my _son_.” He's already lost his wife. He's not losing Stiles. Or Isaac for that matter. If Stiles thinks he's worth fighting for, then Michael will back him up.

 

“I'll make you a deal,” Chris says slowly. “You take me with you, and I'll tell you what I can. What I _can,_ ” he emphasizes.

 

Michael looks at him speculatively. He can work with that.

 

“So tell me, Chris, have you ever been deputized?”


End file.
